


Field of Innocence (Believing In Everything, and Knowing Nothing)

by LordJaketheWarrior



Series: Monster Men [1]
Category: Monster Men - Fandom, Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Leah Clearwater, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Magic, Native American Character(s), Origin Story, Pedophilia, References to Native American Mythology, Spitefic, Twilight Bashing, Twilight Spitefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7767100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordJaketheWarrior/pseuds/LordJaketheWarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Quil and Claire cannot ever end well. Part of the Monster Men series. Claire wishes she can go back to childhood, but all that is left is hatred...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The World From The Eyes Of A Child

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Extremely creepy stuff in this fic. Like, I'm creeped out by it. Enter at your own risk.  
> In this chapter: Innocence is lost and Claire's world crumbles.  
> TW for: (Implied) Rape of a minor.

When Claire is six, the most important person in her life is Quil Ateara. He is her confidant, her best friend, the person that gives her piggyback rides despite the fact she always throws up afterwards and lets her eat chocolate roughly equivalent to her own body weight on a school night. She doesn’t pay attention to how her parent’s look after them with worried looks, or how events always contrive to ensure they spend the most amount of time together. She also doesn’t notice (how could she?) the lustful glances Quil throws every time the slightest hint of flesh is shown. This is an innocence she will wish to return to for years afterwards, but six-year-old Claire runs through these precious memories with little regard, as befits a child of her age.

When she is thirteen, Quil is her favourite uncle-she chooses to ignore her father’s flinch every time she calls him that-a best friend, a safe place, a protector. She comes to him when she first starts her periods, ignoring the contemplative glance he throws at her. The things wrong are harder to ignore now-the way his hand lingers too long on her leg, the look he gives her budding breasts-but she has had years of ignoring the blaring signs, so she’s used to it.

When she is sixteen, her safe place crumbles.

She is told, later, by Emily, of the imprint. Of how painful it was for Quil, being with her but not being _with_ her. How he ‘couldn’t help himself’. (More like didn’t want to wait, she reflects privately).

Emily tells her she will be like her. Tells her how she got the scars, and how she came to love Sam anyway. But Claire sees the truth, deep in Emily’s eyes, so deep even Emily herself can’t see it.

It’s not love that keeps Emily with Sam. It’s fear. And Claire refuses to be ruled by fear.

She remembers, now. The bad and the good. She remembers the things Quil said, and the things Quil did, but she does not dwell on that. Instead she remembers the brown eyes that watched, searchingly, her and Quil’s first meetings. She knows who she needs to go to for help.

It is easy to break into the Swan-Clearwater house, lockpicking being one of the skills she picked up from her friends-her not-Quil friends, and it’s sad, now that she thinks about it, that she has to divide her life up to this point by those standards-and the number is posted on the wall in Chief Swan’s familiar scrawl. It takes a while to connect-overseas phones always are tricky sons of bitches, as her dad says-and the answering voice responds chirpily in an accent so British it’s visible from space “Hello, swanky underground base, how can I help?”

She gives the name, and soon she is hearing the soothing tones of a once-remembered voice, a memory not tainted. She asks.

“How do I kill a werewolf?”

That gets a laugh out of Leah-Lee, she calls herself now, a way to distance herself from the place she came from that Claire now relates to-and an invitation to sit down, they’re gonna be here a while.

“What do you know about magic?” she asks.

Claire already knows this is going to suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deviations from Twilight: According to Smeyer, Imprinting is a purest love of purity purity and totes not pedophilia because it's just a pure platonic love between a grown man and a two-year-old until said two-year-old is technically legal, at which point the guy jumps her bones because that's not creepy at all. I call bullshit, for several reasons, largely me not trusting the words of a woman who thinks abuse and suicide are the pinnacles of tru wuve. Also, Emily is supposed to be in love with the guy that tore her face open, when really at best she's suffering from Stockholm syndrome.  
> The British Girl: This will come up when I actually write the real Monster Men stories, but at this point Lee is living with the Monster Men in England. The British Girl is Seras Victoria. Yes, Seras from Hellsing. Welcome to the Monster Men.  
> Leah=Lee: This is partially to symbolize Leah's removal from Twilight, but mainly it's because I'm planning on doing things that may be technically not legal under copyright law, so changing the name seems a reasonable precaution


	2. Where Has My Heart Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which The Ritual Is Prepared For  
> TW for: Animal Death, A White Writer trying to reference Quileute Mythology.

Claire loves computers. Really, truly loves them with a passion that is only matched by her determination to be the best hacker even conceived of. She was so eager that she was filling out her applications for MIT when she was fifteen, and of course it’s only now that she understands why Quill looked so pained when she showed him them-because as much as he is forced to center his life around her, she is expected to do the same for him. There’s something so pure about the complexity of numbers, of binary’s 0s and 1s, of knowing exactly where to attack a firewall’s code for it to all fall to pieces.

The point is, magic is nothing like that.

_“If you really want to kill Quil, then you’re going to have to cancel out his Werebeast form.” Lee told her, Claire diligently taking notes. “That means you need to talk to the Spirits. To do that, you’ll need to get their attention.”_

_“How do I do that?” Claire asked._

_“How do you get a fireman’s attention?” Lee replied wryly._

It was remarkably difficult to find a deer in Forks. Claire blamed the Cullens, largely because it was the Done Thing in Forks to blame the Cullens for any and all misfortunes that befell someone, but also because what the hell did she expect when the Cullens munched on deer every time they wanted something to eat. (Yes, of course she knew about the Cullens. She wasn’t an idiot, nor was anyone else in Forks. They lived in a town where werewolves were a viable minority group.)

Regardless, eventually she stumbled across a deer, and it was then she discovered how much Last of Us had lied to her. Hunting a deer was not easy, and in the end the poor thing resembled a pincushion more than the murderous creature of myth. She did, however, know how to kill it quickly and painlessly.

_“Why do I have to kill them myself?” she had asked Lee, after the words had been passed down._

_“Because the Spirits only care for strength. If you want to get their attention, you’ll have to do it all yourself. Your kills, your skin-”_

_“-My hands?”_

_Lee laughed. “No, you can do without the hands. A fingernail will suffice.”_

Compared to the deer, the beaver is easy to find, and easier to kill. Claire does cry, largely because as a child she had loved beavers, had played at building a dam with Quil, and now the beaver thrashes in her hands and the blood stains the water.

After that, everything starts to come together. The human skin is remarkably easy to find-Claire never cleans her room, and the dust is so thick that a sample is easy to collect. The nail is pulled and bottled, and then there is the fish.

Charlie Swan helps her with the fish. Lee had assured her that this was alright, that she had done the same.

_“Why did you do it?” Claire asked._

_“What?”_

_“The ritual.”_

_Lee sighed. “The wolves are compelled to obey their alpha. Obviously, in my line of work, that doesn’t work well. So… the Spirits and I came to an agreement.”_

_“Was it worth it?”_

_She hears a shout from the other end, a shriek of laughter. When Lee responds, she can hear the smile in her voice._

_“Of course.”_

Fishing with Chief Swan is relaxing. For a moment Claire can forget the blood, forget the violence, forget _Quil_. Chief Swan- _Charlie_ , he insists on her calling him-does not talk about him, instead asking about anything from school to her hacking. He barely understands a word of her technical jargon, but he _listens_. Claire never met Bella Swan, but now she cannot imagine a girl who could so callously toss a father like Charlie aside.

The dog hair is next. Ms Call has a cute little Husky that Claire dog sits sometimes, and it is simplicity itself to cut off a sample. Then there is only the wolf hair to go...

 _“It can’t just be any wolf.” Lee reminds her. “There has to be magic, or the whole thing will fall apart. You need the hair of a Skinwalker. You need…_ his _hair.”_

She sees it as practice. Sneaking in, silent as the night, past his mother’s room, his grandfather’s, to his own.

She stands over him, for the first of two times, and tries to ignore the shaking, the tears running silently down her face, and how the face of he who was once her saviour has now haunted her nightmares as her own personal monster.

She dismisses her fear, steadies her hand, cuts his hair. Then she walks away, promising herself she will be back, that she will have her revenge.

The items are collected. The ritual is ready.

This really is gonna suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ritual: The ritual is a way of communicating with the spirits of the Quileute tribe by recreating the creation myth using certain items from it:  
> Beaver tail  
> Deer antler  
> Human Skin  
> Human Hands (Fingernail)  
> Wolf Fur  
> Dog Fur  
> Fish  
> Said creation myth can be found here: http://www.native-languages.org/quileutestory.htm  
> Please note that I am in no way an expert in Native American culture, being white and British. If I got anything wrong, please feel free to correct me.


	3. An Uneven Trade for the Real World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which The Ritual is Performed, and Claire Makes a Deal  
> tw for: More Quileute Mythology, mentions of rape and other violence. Not the violence you want, though.

It is a hard task, dragging a cauldron full of various animal parts along a riverbank. Claire had snuck out of the house at the crack of dawn, placed all of her ingredients in a cauldron (that Lee had had air delivered-why were none of the other adults in her life this cool?) and began her long trek to the creek.

_“The Spirits like repetition.” Lee had told her late that night, when her parents had gone to bed and Claire still lay on her bed, curled around the phone. “So a girl going to a place where Dask'iya was killed and symbolically recreating the creation myth? That’s like committing arson next-door to a fireman. Then comes the hard part…”_

Eventually Claire reaches Yaq'ilis creek, slowly and methodically placing broiling stones on a small outcrop. A raven caws at her, and Claire wonders if it is in acknowledgement or warning. She places the cauldron on the stones, lights the fire, and decides it doesn’t matter.

As the stones heat, Claire starts to sing. She’s terrible, more tone deaf than Quil, which is saying something, but it matters little at this stage. She sings the songs her grandfather used to sing, sings of Raven and his tricks, of Q’wati and how he made the Quileute of wolves, tales of the mighty Thunderbird, of Dask’iya and her cooking stones, of the girl that slew her where Claire now sits.

She feels the air humming, feels the heat of the fire increase by supernatural means. She continues singing, singing of the arrival of the Cold Ones, of the Chief’s plea to the spirits. She sings of the uneasy truce between the vampires and the werewolves, of the departure of Lee after the fight with the vampire Victoria, of the climactic battle-that-never-was. She sings of her own grief, of her own pain, of Quil and Sam and all the wolves who have wronged the people they swore to protect. When she is done, she feels the twin sensations of the fire in the stones and the tears on her face.

Then she feels them. Feels Raven himself, laughing at everything-Quil, her, the tribe, himself. Feels the powerful beating wings of the Thunderbird, the peaceful, contented vindictiveness of Q’wati, the mad cackles of Dask’iya. She feels Embry Call’s father, and Harry Clearwater, and Chief Taha Aki, and the Third Wife of Legend.

Then her vision explodes as she feels _everything_.

Life in all its infinitude spreads out around her. She feels the spreading roots of the tree run through her feet, hears the cries of an eagle as it soars through the sky, tastes the raw flesh of a mouse as the cat devours it, sees as an owl, runs as a wolf, smells as a bear. It’s all so _much_ that Claire barely holds onto herself, and she wonders how Lee could bear it.

_“See, the thing you need to know about Spirits is that they don’t really think like people do. There’s all too much, even the human spirits are only able to communicate through emotions. Essentially, you’re going to have to have a complicated talk on the complexities of human morality via feels and pictograms.”_

Claire only now gets what Lee was talking about. The Spirits are confusing, all jumbled up and chaotic. The main feeling she seems to be getting is apathy, of contempt. _Is this all?_ The Spirits seem to be asking, _Is this what you called us here for?_

Claire forces her thoughts and feelings out, the song now only in her head. She thinks of Quil, how his breath felt on her mouth, how he rutted like the dog they had made him into. She thinks of her grief, of her pain, but most of all of her _rage_.

The Spirits are sympathetic, but uncaring, an attitude that may be a paradox anywhere else, but not here, where thousands of voices inhabit one girl, where the entire history of the world is laid bare in her head.

She thinks of all those who have been damaged by the Skinwalkers-Emily Young, Kim, Rachel Black. She thinks of the Truce between the vampires-Scintillula, she remembers Lee calling them-and all the blood and pain that followed.

Here the Spirits diverge. Some, the dead Chief and the Third Wife amongst them, are outraged, raging at the betrayal of their sacrifice. Some, such as Q’wati himself, are peaceful, reminding the others of the old adage: ‘For the good of the Tribe’. Through it all, Raven laughs. The Spirits fall to bickering, ignoring the girl that brought them all here until, jumping on the coat-tails of their argument, she asks them a simple question:

_Will you help me?_

The Spirits quieten. Then one speaks-Claire’s grandmother, she realizes.

_We cannot. The Tribe must be defended._

_Against… what?_

_The Others._

The images throw themselves up for her attention, each more horrifying than the last, hordes of ravenous wolves:

Moon-slaved Kind Mondes, prowling the lonely places of the world, ruled by their inner Beast.

The fallen, noble Bequeathed, and the savage Blooded Ones who took their place.

The sad, twisted Wolforen, forced into human shape by their mad and petty gods

The cold Corvinus, torn apart by their own petty squabbles.

Claire sees it all. She knows what the Spirits are trying to say. She knows what she must do.

"If you help me." She manages to spit out, her mouth dry with nerves. "If you help me... I will kill them all."

The pronouncement is greeted by silence. She repeats it, her eyes widening at the last phrase… where had that come from? Then, quietly, with the voice of a thousand, the Spirits respond:

 _…Done_.

And then they are gone.

The fire dies quickly, snuffed out like a light.

Claire gets up quietly, wiping blood from her nose-it turns out hosting a conglomeration of mystical forces gives you a nosebleed, who knew?-and slowly and deliberately picks up her knife, turning her back to that place and heading towards her revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, lots of stuff to get through with this one, so:  
> Mythological References:  
> Yaq'ilis Creek and Dask’iya: As far as I can tell, this is basically Quileute Baba Yaga, only without the chicken house.  
> Raven: Raven is more or less a universal Native American concept, and can I just say how much I love that a Trickster god is the one thing all the Native American storytellers agree on?  
> Q’wati: The maker of the Quileute tribe, and all their neighbors, and possibly the world.  
> Thunderbird: I confess I didn't find much on this one, hence why he has such a bit part. Big bird, makes thunder with his wing-flaps. That's about it.  
> Twishit References:  
> Embry's Father: I did actually consider making Embry a Demigod-like, his dad is Raven or Q'wati, but I eventually decided against it. Still like the idea, though, and if you all like it I hope I left it ambiguous enough for headcanons to still be a thing.  
> Lee's Departure: This is tangentially tied to the IrregularVerse, in that this is where my story diverges from the Twiligh canon-in this story, Leah leaves with the Monster Men at the end of Eclipse, and the rest of events happen more-or-less the same but with less (or more, depending on who you're asking) shitting on Leah.  
> IrregularVerse References:  
> Scintillula: literally means 'Sparkle' in Latin-it's what the 'real fucking vampires' call the Sparklepires fro Twishit.  
> The Werewolves: Here's the big one. Basically, the explanation for how the werewolves of different stories who all have different rules coexist together is that they are all different Races, classed as Werewolves just because. Thus, the four Races mentioned plus the Skinwalkers (i.e. the werewolves from Twilight) are all completely different. These are:  
> The Kind Mondes: Your basic turns-at-full-moon, weak-to-silver, common-or-garden Werewolf.  
> The Bequeathed/Blooded Ones: Werewolves who inherit their lycanthropy. The Blooded Ones are the result of too much inbreeding from the Bequeathed-their wolf powers can only be activated by murder.  
> The Wolforen: A bastardized version of 'wolf geboren', German for 'Wolf-born', these are kind of the opposite of werewolves-wolves turned into men against their will.  
> The Corvinus: Every scientific version of werewolf evolves from this Race, named after the werewolves from the Underworld franchise.  
> So, lot of stuff, and if you have any more questions, ask away! Next up: Revenge!


	4. Clouded By What I Know Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Revenge Is Had.  
> TW: Blood, gore, extensive reference to underage rape, discussion of toxic masculinity and rape culture

It’s the work of a few moments to break the lock. She considers the quiet approach, leaving without a trace, but it hardly matters. Come morning, the house will be crawling with cops, and she can’t bring herself to care about people knowing.

She’s fearful that Charlie will hate her, now that she’s a murderer. But, then again, she saw the way he looked at her during their fishing trip, she remembers the tales of his daughter. Perhaps he won’t hate her, after all.

There are three bedrooms in the house – Quil Ateara the Third, a kindly man that Claire now knows as one of the village elders – responsible, as the Spirits whisper, for curbing the Wolf Pack’s Beast-driven tendencies – his daughter-in-law, Joy, a doting mother that has known for a while about the secrets of the tribe, and there, at the far end of the hall, _His_ room.

She blames them all, in some way. But she’s only here for one of them tonight.

Her feet are silent on the wooden floor, and she doesn’t know whether that’s her socks or some aspect of the Spirits. She can hear them now, whispering in her ear. She wonders if she’s going insane. It hardly matters.

She oils the hinges – one of the spirits was a burglar in the early days of the Revolutionary War, and she whispers her advice now – and slowly pushes the door open.

He’s lying on his bed, the paper-thin covers thrown off, sweating. She knows werewolves produce a lot of excess body heat, but she wonders if Imprinting leaves its mark physiologically as well as psychologically. She waves those idle thoughts away as she walks to his side.

“Quil.” she whispers, shaking his shoulder. She wants to see his face.

He grumbles, shifts in bed, opens his eyes. He sees her, and his countenance shifts, joy and relief and artificial love flooding his face. He opens his mouth, words of apology and declarations of love on his tongue.

She brings the knife into his heart.

Waking him up was a mistake.

He tenses, his entire body going into overdrive, supernatural healing working overtime to fix the damage. It doesn’t work. The Spirits vaguely whisper, and the Beast is mollified into letting its host die. Blood floods the ventricle, and as Clare sweeps the knife across until she hits a rib, she looks at Quil’s face.

The expression there will keep her warm for nights to come.

The loving devotion given by the Imprint is gone, replaced with horror – though at his own actions or at what he has driven her to do is anyone’s guess. As the light fades from his eyes, she leans down and whispers two words, words achingly familiar to both of them.

‘Stop. Struggling.’

His eyes roll back, at last his head falls on the pillow, and she pulls the knife out. There are tears in her eyes, but she’s smiling nonetheless.

It’s over.

***

She walks out the house as quietly as she came. She still has the knife in her hand – Lee said it was too distinctive to leave behind, and anyway her friend wanted it back. She steps out, closes the door behind her but leaves it unlocked, and takes a deep breath.

She reaches down to grab her phone when her hand stops of its own volition.

 _You swore to kill them all._ The Spirits remind her in her own voice – or is it really her voice?

She looks around, confused – _surely they don’t mean kill all the werewolves?_ – before her head turns to a familiar house. But of _course_.

Quil was one snake with their teeth in an innocent. But there is another. The Great Work continues.

***

“Hello Sam.”

Sam Uley turns, his full body facing her way in a boring display of masculinity. Exactly as planned.

Her dagger sweeps out, cutting across his chest in a vertical line. Whilst he’s still reeling from surprise, she sinks the knife deep into the soft part of his stomach, dragging it across.

Sam falls to the ground, clutching at the deep wound.

“I’ll be brief. You only have… about ten minutes, and I want to savour this for myself.”

“Claire… what… why?” he gasps, looking so frail and pathetic for such a manly man.

“Really. You wanna know why? Look at your wife. Look at what you did to her, and _tell me why I would_.”

Understanding eventually dawns.

“I… didn’t… mean… was… accident.” he moans.

“Yes, I imagine it was hard for you, being told by the elders that Emily belonged to you, only for her to turn you down. I also imagine it played on your guilt, that she was so loyal to Leah when you were not. I’m certain you couldn’t help it, just as Quil couldn’t help _raping_ me.”

It’s the first time she’s said it, and it feels _good_.

“It… wasn’t… rape…” he protests, his actions weakening, whether through fatigue or lack of resolve.

“Why? Because ‘we belong together’? Because ‘deep down I was asking for it’?” she pulls up a chair, sitting and watching his struggle. “Incidentally, do you _really_ think Emily loves you?”

He stops dead. A gamut of emotions pass over his face – rage and confusion giving over to fear and dread.

“What…”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, Uley. You tore her face open, then confronted her in the hospital that same day? She’d have said anything to get you to not hit her again. She still lives in fear of you, even if she’s too far gone to admit it herself. Who knows, with you gone, maybe she’ll finally break free. Maybe she’ll just break. Either way, we’ll see.”

She sighs, walking towards him.

“I really don’t hate you, Sam. You’re just a rabid dog, and I blame the trainer. But you do have to be put down. For Emily, if nothing else.”

She places her hand on his brow, brings the knife to his throat. She has a mad urge to whisper something trite, like _Requiescat in Pace_. But she doesn’t.

She just cuts.

***

She runs away, this time, filled with this energy that mere walking cannot countenance. She takes out her phone, calls the number.

“He’s dead,” she blurts out as soon as the phone is picked up. “He’s dead, and Sam’s dead, and I killed them both, and-”

“-am I to assume,” said a sardonic male voice with an accent distinctly not like Lee’s lilting drawl “That these are justifiable murders? Because if you wished to confess to the authorities, you may have dialled the wrong number.”

Her heart stops in her throat.

“Erm… can I speak to Lee, please?” she croaks.

“I’m afraid she’s away.” the voice responds “dreadful business in Copenhagen, you know how it goes. Might I assume I am speaking with Claire Young?”

“…Yeah.” she whispers, the girl who threatened and monologued at a dying man gone.

The man’s voice is gentle, with the hint of a smile, when he next speaks. “Do you still have the knife, Claire?”

She instinctively brings it out, looking at the curved edges and long, thin handle. “Yeah.”

“Good,” his tone is brisk again. “It’s worth quite a lot of money, that poniard.”

“Where did you get it?” she asks, twirling it in her hand.

“It was gifted to me by a friend, who had it specially made after I sorted out a problem in his residence.”

“How old is it?”

“Oh, about three hundred and seventy years.”

She drops the dagger.

“I forgot to introduce myself.” the voice says after a brief period of swearing. “My name is Alucard.”

***

“…so, yeah.” she finishes, having told Alucard the whole story.

He’s silent for a moment.

“So… the Spirits of your tribe brokered a deal where you would hunt down insane or crazed werebeasts and kill them.”

“I think so. At least, I hope so, otherwise I need to kill every werewolf, and I really don’t want to do that.”

“The terms of Lee’s deal were something similar, as I believe.” Alucard mused, as the first glint of sunlight rises east. She’s broken into two houses, killed two people. No matter how much Chief Swan may sympathise, they’ll be looking for her. “Would you like to test that theory?”

“What?” she says, momentarily distracted by such dark thoughts.

“There’s a… situation in Canada we’ve had our eyes on for a while. Two Blooded One sisters, both at odds with each other. If your oath is bound to the destruction of the insane or the feral, only one need die. If not… well, I’ll send backup, in any case. Interested?”

“They’ll be looking for me. I killed two people.” Claire offers her token protest, already intrigued.

“We have pull with the justice system. We can make you disappear from all public records. And… well, I’ve met Chief Swan. He’s not as dumb as his daughter, I can tell you that much. I don’t particularly think he’ll care if you killed two people the law couldn’t touch, for one reason or another.”

Claire sighs, looking over La Push. It only occurs to her now that she forgot to say goodbye to her parents.

“I’ll go.”

“Excellent. Well then, Ms Young.” There’s definitely no mistaking the smile in his voice now. “Welcome to the Monster Men.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done. Now, for the last time in this version at least, some notes:  
> Twishit:  
> Quil's family: I actually had to go on the Twilight wiki to look up Quil's family, and I feel physically unclean now. I think I may need to purge myself. Personally fascinating note: Quil's grandfather gets an entire page dedicated to him, but his mum gets relegated to a minor note on his family page, because all Meyer said was that she gave birth to and now raises that little pedo.  
> Blame: just because only the werewolves got killed, do not expect me to forgive the humans in this situation. Quil's granddad and mother both new what Imprinting was, as do a lot of the other members of the wolf pack's parents, and no-one except Leah at any point question Sam's assault of Emily. Whilst I'm certain no-one in the RL Quileute tribe is anything like their fictional counterparts, and I've got nothing but respect and sympathy for them, fuck Meyer's version, I hope they all die.  
> The elder's role: I'll admit, I did embellish aspects of Meyer's canon throughout this story to make a better story. In the books, we never really, at least to my knowledge, get an explanation of what the elders do, so here they're meant to be a humanizing influence on the wolves, but have grown so corrupted that they allow them to go around willy-nilly.
> 
> Monster Men References:  
> Alucard: Go on, guess who his dad is. Guess. Give up? Alucard is the main character of the main Monster Men books, so I sorta had to include him here. That dagger? if this story is set in the 2020's, and he got it 350 years ago, then he got it in the 1660's - in the time of Louis XIV. A poniard, btw, is a dueling dagger from early renaissance, just long and thin enough to slip under the ribs to stab directly into the heart.  
> The Business in Canada: This references the 2000 movie Ginger Snaps, which I highly recommend if you're into werewolves - it's basically a better version of Twilight. It is really gory, though, so be warned. Anyone who has watched it may notice some continuity errors, which... if I want to return to Claire at any point I'll explain them, but for now MST3K it.
> 
> Thanks for reading, please leave kudos and comments if you have any more questions!


End file.
